Sans Drawing Novels & Stories

For the first time in four days I was not thinking about the photographs or the captions or the nine messages I had not opened. I was just drawing. It was enough for now.

Hopefully, that was what Hayden drew today. Hayden paused and lowered his head while rubbing his nape. He looked resistant, but they all stared at him with a wronged expression as if saying, 'We've all shown you our drawings; you can't hide yours from us' which made him sigh and decide to show them his drawing; it wouldn't hurt anyway. 'Hayden drew a man.' Their boiling excitement and curiosity cooled down immediately. And they sat back in their chairs—in disappointment—upon seeing the drawing.

"Wait, I have to show you something." Me, Fulvio, Esme and Valerie stand staring at each other in an awkward silence until Luka comes back with a pile of paper in his hands. Esme and Valerie seem to agree on this at least. They spring into action, helping Luka lay out his drawings on the kitchen table. Each page is divided into four or six panels. Figures leap across panels or interact within them. There are no speech bubbles. Luka points to one and Silvia moves around the table so she is behind him looking over his shoulder. There's a beautiful woman wearing an all black, tight-fitting all-in-one. She has long, dark hair and ...

God. Everything was fine. Fair. Until the last page. Reasonable honestly. Then she froze. God. Because there was a drawing. Fair. A brand new drawing. Reasonable. Not hers. God. Definitely not hers. Fair. Just scribbles. Reasonable honestly. Lots of scribbles. God. Then one tiny stick figure. Fair. Then another tiny stick figure. Reasonable. Then a tiny circle. God. Everyone stared. Fair. Then Peanut pointed proudly.

I looked over it again and again as I hoped Chris would love it. It is a realistic drawing of him in black and white. No color pencil was used. He is a suit with his arms folded on each other. He looked so manly with his expressionless face standing there. I made the drawing to his stomach and stopped it there, not drawing further down. It looks like a portrait. I wish I could frame it out before he comes back from work but I won't even be going out today. I glanced up at the time and it was up to an hour before he arrives from work.

Sandra said and the woman gave her a huge smile. "Can I ask you for something?" She asked. Sandra didn't want to make promises she would not fulfill but seeing how the woman looked like she was about to cry..she nodded and smiled back. "Can you make him draw you? My Son has never drawn anything ever since that girl broke his heart and left him. He began having hand tremors when he'd want to draw and ever since then...he has stopped drawing a damn thing. He doesn't even write much cause of it." The woman explained.

POV: Sienna Rhodes The sketchbook on my kitchen table has been open for three days. I don't close it anymore. There is no point in closing it because the drawings are in my head whether the book is open or not, and having them on paper gives them somewhere to be that is outside of me, which is the only relief available.

She would heed Liberty’s advice and drink less in the future. “Do you want to get it back?” “How can you get it back? Even if you do, it’s all mushed up. It’s okay, I’ll just redraw it.” Zachary said apologetically, “I didn’t know that drawing was so important. I just grabbed it without a second look. Next time, don’t put your drawing on the dresser. It’s too close to the bed.” “Okay.” Serenity thought to herself, ‘Well, this kind of thing can’t happen every day…’

Mordechai said. “How do you have no idea?” “I just pick something up and I start. Half the time, it ends up being something. You don’t have to pretend to be interested.” My heart thumped. “I’m not. I didn’t like all the quiet and I wanted to know what you were working on.” He stopped, taking a deep breath before he sat back and let the sketchpad lay on his lap. “I don’t really let people see me draw.” “Do you want me to go into the other room?”

I can’t seem to take my eyes off it. “Thank you very much.” He says smiling at me. “Do you draw?” he asks looking at me with the same intensity he was looking at the little girl. His focus is a little intimidating; I’m not used to people looking at me like that. I’m used to disappearing in the background. “No, I do not.” I say smiling at him too. Why would he think I draw? “I can barely draw a stick man.” I say truthfully. I don’t even own a pencil.